


Wind

by earthtoalley



Series: 30 Days of Writing [11]
Category: Alan Wake (Video Game)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-16
Updated: 2013-06-16
Packaged: 2017-12-15 05:12:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/845699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earthtoalley/pseuds/earthtoalley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The writer soldiered on through the dark, desperation guiding his steps. He had to make it through this. He had to save Alice."</p>
<p>Drabble for the 30 Days of Writing meme. Prompt 11: Wind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wind

**Author's Note:**

> I was only up to the scene in question when I wrote this, so there may be things that conflict with canon. I apologise if there is, as I have since finished the game, and there was nothing out of place, to my knowledge.

The writer stumbled through the darkness of the nigh unending forests of Bright Falls, his heartbeat loud in his ears. Tree branches reached out for him like the desperate, scrabbling hands of some ravenous monster, that threatened to swallow him entirely each time one snagged on his jacket.

He could hear Nightingale in the distance, bellowing his threats into the night and firing bullets into the trees. For once, the writer was thankful for the cover of darkness, even if he did feel utterly defenceless without his torch or his revolver. If any of those  _things_  – the ‘Taken’ as he seemed to call them in his manuscript – came for him, he would be a sitting duck.

His blood turned to ice in his veins as the wind picked up around him, an impenetrable wall of black surrounding him on all sides. He could barely see more than a few feet in front of him and his heartbeat raced. The growing darkness and the howling wind could only mean one thing; the Taken were coming.

The writer soldiered on through the dark, desperation guiding his steps. He had to make it through this. He  _had_  to save Alice. He could hear those  _things_  slithering around in the darkness, waiting for their moment to strike.

A heavy, discordant metallic screech cut through the air like a knife, and before the writer knew it, there in front of him was a burnt out patrol car. The ferocious gale had buffeted it off the road, where it had tumbled down the cliffside like a lifeless doll. There was no sign of the driver, and the crackly signal on the police scanner told him Nightingale was still on his tail.

He had to shake them, for Alice’s sake. The writer popped the trunk, hoping there would be something –  _anything_  – he could arm himself with. His fingers closed around the casing of a flashbang and the writer felt the wind pick up around him even more.

“Modern camping equipment is lightweight!”

The stuttered and incomprehensible sentence chilled the writer like a bath of ice water. He heard the clunk of an axe being swung towards him.

The writer pulled the pin.

The night exploded.


End file.
